


A Rose on Any Other Day

by geekprincess26



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Babies, Birthdays, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 02:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12224040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekprincess26/pseuds/geekprincess26
Summary: Jon Snow married Sansa Stark on her one-and-twentieth name day.  She claimed a whole bouquet of winter roses was too frivolous a thing to be wasted on her and not shared with the people of the North, even though she loved the flowers.  But Jon, who thought a selfless woman like Sansa far too wonderful for him, begged to differ, and so a decades-long tradition was born.





	A Rose on Any Other Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllisonSwan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllisonSwan/gifts).



> Written for the "Milestones" round of the Jonsa Gift Exchange hosted by the lovely ladies of @jonsaexchange on Tumblr.

Jon Snow married Sansa Stark on her one-and-twentieth name day.

 

He had groused and growled when his aunt, the newly-minted Queen of the Six Kingdoms, had announced the date. The Queen in the North, he had pointed out, deserved some happiness for once on her name day, and not yet another unwanted marriage to another unwanted bridegroom – and a bridegroom who had been raised as her half-brother, at that.

 

But Daenerys Targaryen would yield to no one, not even her nephew and heir, and she had not hesitated to tell him so. Jon had opened his mouth to shout back at her, but he had felt the gentle pressure of Sansa’s hand on his arm and heard her calmly agree with Daenerys, and, as was increasingly the case with his fair cousin, he found himself speechless.

 

As soon as Daenerys had left the room, he had begun to growl again about how much better Sansa deserved. Sansa had blushed, but only a bit, and her voice had remained steady as she had assured Jon she had no objections to being married on her name day. It was such a silly thing to fuss about, she had said, what with a kingdom full of half-starved people to care for, and a keep full of refugees, and the possibility of yet another blizzard howling over Winterfell and making the Kingsroad utterly impassable any day. And Daenerys, anxious to head south and officially claim the Iron Throne now that Cersei Lannister had been slain by her own twin brother, could not be kept waiting. Nor could the Northern lords, who were growing more eager by the day to see the new alliance between North and South cemented with a true marriage before the Old Gods.

 

“But – ” Sansa’s voice had lowered then, and she had stretched out her hand until it hovered just over his arm. Jon had stilled at once, and even then it had taken a few moments for Sansa to lower her hand enough to touch him and thank him quietly for thinking of her just the same. He had felt the faint tremors in her fingers, and a wave of shame had washed over him. He had been snapping at his aunt over the date of a wedding when he should have been reassuring his bride that, aunt and lords be damned, he would treat her in every way as the queen she was and as a man should treat his wife; and he would show her that she need never tremble to touch him – not on the wedding night or any night after.

 

So the following day, when Jon had accompanied Sansa on her inspection of the glass gardens, he had noticed how she had lingered and smiled over the blue winter roses nestled in the corner of the smallest garden. After they had returned to the keep to meet with his aunt, he had observed Sansa’s eyes widening just a bit when Daenerys had asked her if she intended to carry a bouquet of flowers into the godswood when she wed Jon. After all, it was the latest fashion among new brides, Northern and Southern alike, to adorn themselves with a sign of spring now that the Battle for the Dawn had been won and the winter was nearly over. Sansa had replied that the flowers of Winterfell were better used to decorate the castle and lift the spirits of its residents. Jon had not voiced his disagreement at the time, but a few days before the wedding, he had swallowed his pride long enough to ask his aunt just how this new bridal ornament should be arranged. She had surprised him by accompanying him to the glass gardens, and he had spent the better part of an hour there learning how to pluck and prune winter roses. By the end of the session, his hands were covered with scratches and the gardeners in tears from laughing at his clumsy first attempts; but Jon had successfully plucked his first rose, and that made the wounds and the laughter alike well earned.

 

On the morning of Sansa’s name day, Jon greeted her in her solar bearing a fine bouquet of winter roses interlaced with white snowbells. It was bound with a thick silver bracelet carved in the form of a chain of direwolves with sapphire eyes, and from the bracelet dangled a wooden direwolf ornament that Jon had carved himself. Sansa’s eyes lit up like candles, and she threw her arms around him and whispered that he should not have gone to so much trouble. Jon felt her shoulders trembling, but he rubbed soothing circles upon her back, and eventually she stopped shaking. When she drew back, her eyes were shining, and for once she seemed as speechless as he. “They’re so _pretty_ ,” she whispered at length, nodding toward the flowers and caressing their petals as her eight-year-old self would have done.

 

“Not as pretty as you,” Jon murmured; and they were both blushing when Sansa’s handmaiden came to fetch her for the wedding preparations.

 

When Sansa swept into the godswood that evening, the petals on the bouquet Jon had so carefully arranged for her glowed like the sapphires on her new bracelet in the combined light of the candles, moon, and stars. But Jon noticed none of them. He was far too awestruck by the loveliness of his bride and her glowing red hair and her shining eyes and her trembling smile. It was not until he heard Arya snickering behind him that he realized Maester Wolkan had just asked, “Who claims her?” for the third time in a row.

 

Sansa’s hands trembled through most of the ceremony; but Jon rubbed the backs gently with his thumbs until they stopped shaking. Later that night, she trembled again, even as she insisted they do their duty and get an heir for the North. He asked twice if she was sure, and for a moment he thought she would decline. Then her eyes swept to the bedside table, where her wedding bouquet stood in a lovely fluted glass dish that had belonged to Lady Catelyn; and she nodded firmly and began to undo her laces. She managed to knot them instead, so Jon untied them as carefully as he had tied her wedding bouquet. When she let her shift fall away to expose her bare body to him, he stroked her cheeks and peppered her lips and forehead and neck with petal-soft kisses. When he finally laid her on the bed, he caressed her hair and her body with the same bumbling tenderness he had used to pluck the notoriously delicate blue roses in the glass gardens. Gradually, Sansa stopped trembling and began kissing and stroking him back and emitting the most delightful little moans. When she finally opened her body to him, he was moaning in turn and whispering _Sansa_ and _perfect_ and _so beautiful_ , and she hummed with joy to hear it. And as he held her and kissed her afterward, she whispered her thanks for the very best name day gift he could possibly have given her.

 

“Which one, sweet girl?” he whispered back.

 

Sansa’s eyes shone in the candlelight. “The gift of a kind and wonderful husband,” she murmured, and Jon found himself speechless once again.

 

So he was puzzled one day three months later, when Sansa apologized for having neglected to thank him for the other name day gift he had given her.

 

“Which other one?” asked Jon, his brow furrowing. His wife merely grinned in response, reached for his hand, and drew it down to lie flat across her belly.

 

“This one,” she replied, looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Jon’s eyes nearly left their sockets when the meaning of her actions sank in.

 

“On our – your name day? For true?” he whispered once he was able to draw breath, and Sansa nodded and beamed at him. Jon swept her up into his arms and drowned her in kisses again, just as he had on their wedding night.

 

Six months later, their screaming, red-headed gift arrived in the midst of a mighty late winter blizzard. Jon stared into his son’s gray eyes and realized how much he should have thanked his wife for her gift to him, rather than the other way around, and he murmured as much as he planted kiss after kiss on her forehead and the babe’s. She beamed up at him.

 

“Robb is our gift to each other, my love,” she whispered. She had never called Jon that before. He could not speak, or think, or do anything other than lean down to kiss her lips tenderly and feel his tears melding with her own.

 

On Sansa’s two-and-twentieth name day, Jon presented her with a garland of winter roses to wear on her head; for, he said after she had finished kissing him in thanks, even if she would not wear her usual gold and sapphire crown except on important occasions or when visiting their bannermen, she must always know she was his queen today and every day. His cheeks flushed as he said it; but Sansa’s renewed kisses were anything but shy, and in between them she announced she was quite ready to try for another name day gift. Jon returned her kisses most enthusiastically and swept her off to bed at once.

 

Sansa did not conceive another gift that day; but she spent the afternoon of her third-and-twentieth name day picnicking in the godswood with her husband and son. She cheerfully rearranged the garland of blue roses on her head every time Robb knocked it askew, and every time he ran off and Jon jumped up yet again to chase him, she laughed along with her son and rubbed her burgeoning belly. The babe was kicking ferociously, and Sansa told Jon that he or she must be laughing too.

 

Every name day after that, Jon gifted Sansa with yet another crown of blue roses and another round of kisses. The more name days that passed, the more he had to share his kisses with their growing number of children, but neither of them minded one whit. Sansa, in fact, seemed to prefer it that way, for her happiness grew with her belly every time Jon gave her another babe. And no matter how many children they had to tuck into bed at the end of one of Sansa’s name days, they always managed to carve out a precious hour or two alone.

 

On Sansa’s six-and-twentieth name day, Jon spent the evening bathing and rubbing her feet, which had swollen nearly to the degree her belly had reached now that she was nine moons’ turn into her pregnancy with their next babe. They drank ale and laughed over Robb’s escapades that day with young Timon Lannister, the son of Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth. The candles burned low, the laughter gave way to deep kisses, and Jon and Sansa ended the evening tangled blissfully in each other’s arms.

 

On Sansa’s thirtieth name day, he and Jon visited the crypts to place blue roses on the grave of their daughter Lyra, who had been taken by the spring fever a few months prior, just before her second name day. Sansa’s tears flowed freely into Jon’s jerkin as he rocked her back and forth in front of Lyra’s grave. When she gathered herself enough to look up at him, she saw the candlelight glance off the tear tracks that littered his cheeks; and she took him back into her arms and ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his cheek and shoulder. When they finally bid their daughter good night, Jon used one strong arm to draw her to his side and the other to hold her face as brushed his lips against her forehead; and they left the crypts in each other’s arms, as they did every year after that on what would have been little Lyra’s next name day.

 

On Sansa’s four-and-thirtieth name day, Jon’s left leg was broken from the fall he had taken from his horse, when he had swerved to avoid eight-year-old Rickard and five-year-old Lyanna. They had been out playing in the godswood after sunset against their parents’ command, and both had cried uncontrollably when they heard their papa cry out in pain and saw his men flock around him with faces white as snow. Nearly a month later, they had recovered from the shock, but they had both taken ill, along with all of Jon and Sansa’s other children except Robb and baby Ned. Sansa spent her name day flitting from bedchamber to bedchamber, holding glasses of water to her children’s lips and replacing the cold cloths on their foreheads and exchanging clean bowls for bowls full of vomit with the harried servants. Jon hobbled about and helped her as best he could within the limits imposed by his injury and his crutches. Sansa reprimanded him for moving about far more than Maester Samwell Tarly felt proper, and indeed Jon’s winces of pain became more frequent as the day passed. Still, he managed to limp all the way to the glass gardens and back after dinner, and when Sansa retired to their bedchamber, she found her usual wreath of blue roses sitting on the bedside table. Shortly afterward, Jon shuffled into the room very slowly and flinching much of the way; and when he spoke it was not to complain about his injury but to apologize for not having the wreath ready that morning instead. Sansa, whose mouth had opened to scold him silly, threw her arms around him instead, and Jon embraced her back. They were too exhausted even to commence one of their usual arguments about how Jon either did far too much for her (as she always said) or only half what she deserved (as he averred). Instead they exchanged a few weary, gentle kisses and collapsed on the bed in each other’s arms.

 

On Sansa’s seven-and-thirtieth name day, Robb and their eldest daughter, Anya, were old enough to look after four-year-old Ned and baby Miera, and Rickard, Lyanna, and Sara were of age to watch themselves. Sansa and Jon repeated the picnic they had had fourteen years prior. It was a cool day on the cusp of autumn, and they drew their cloaks tightly about them as they feasted on bread and cheese and sweetmeats and even two lemon cakes Jon had snuck from the kitchens, where the bakers had been up with the sun to churn out the dozens Jon had ordered for that evening’s dinner. Afterward, they raced to the hot springs, giggling like children. The giggles, though, quickly turned to kisses, and then to moans and gasps and panting as the two undressed each other and spent the next hour making love in the middle of the steaming water. Sansa managed to keep her garland of blue roses atop her head the entire time, and when she pointed it out with her sauciest smirk to Jon, he wasted no time bearing his giggling wife to the side of the pool and making her gasp his name all over again.

 

On Sansa’s one-and-fortieth name day, Jon and the children – including two-year-old twins Alysanne and Jaeherys, the last of their brood – showered her with gifts, and even their bannermen’s families contributed to the hoard, for they wished to celebrate their king and queen’s marking twenty years of marriage. Sansa grinned merrily throughout it all, but most of her smiles did not quite reach her eyes, and that afternoon, when Sansa retreated to her solar for a few quiet moments of sewing, Jon found her with tears glittering on her cheeks. He rushed to her at once, and her face reddened when she saw him, and it took a few minutes for her to admit that her monthly bleeding had become thinner and come at less regular intervals of late, and sometimes she felt spasms of heat run through her body. Her life change was upon her, she said, and now she would approach her old age and be unable to bear Jon any more dear babes; and she burst into tears, and Jon rocked her gently in his arms.

 

“Do you remember what I said to you when you told me your wedding bouquet was beautiful?” he murmured when she had calmed, and he brushed the tears from her cheeks.

 

Sansa blushed. “You said I was prettier than the roses,” she whispered, smiling; and Jon beamed back at her.

 

“And you are, my love,” he assured her. “You were then, and you are now, and you will be twenty years from now, when I am an old, bald, wrinkled man and still the luckiest on earth, still wondering how it was that you, my beautiful – ” he reached over to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead – “strong – ” he kissed her left cheek – “brave – ” and the other – “brilliant – ” his lips lowered to her chin – “sweet – ” and her neck – “incredible wife saw fit to wind herself into my heart so completely.”

 

He reached for her lips then, and Sansa opened them eagerly underneath his, even as she stood and turned to lead him to their bed; and when she next cried out, it was from pleasure, and not the least bit of sorrow remained.

 

One evening three months later, when they lay bare under the furs and curled up in each other’s arms, Sansa confessed that she had forgotten once again to thank Jon for his best gift to her from her prior name day. The light from the candles was strong enough both for her to see the confusion on his face and for him to see the cat-like grin on hers as she drew her hand down to her bare stomach. Jon’s eyes went wide as ale horns; and Sansa, blushing, confessed that she had not bled since her name day, but must have been wrong about her change being quite complete.

 

“I am sorry, my love,” she began, but Jon stopped her lips and kissed her breathless.

 

“Well, I am not,” he declared; and Sansa kissed him back, and neither of them said anything more for quite some time.

 

Six months later, when Sansa brought forth a raven-haired, silver-eyed son on a warm spring day, Jon curled his arms around his wife and little Brandon and silently thanked the gods his wife had been wrong. Still, he was not entirely surprised when Sansa looked at him with her weary, radiant eyes and said the very same thing out loud.

 

Jon dropped a tender kiss to her brow. “I’m still not sorry,” he whispered, and Sansa beamed at him.

 

“Neither am I, my love,” she replied, and reached up to bring his lips to her own.

 


End file.
